


Cut from whole cloth

by StripySock



Series: Indulgence. [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Cock Worship, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert is tormented by Madeleine who unknowingly tempts him, and discovers a grey area of the law.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut from whole cloth

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt [prompt](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?thread=2554771#t2554771)

There is no shortage of cloth in Montreuil-sur-Mer. There is a surfeit in fact, the stalls in the streets and in the market, overflow with brocades, cottons, there are even velvets and silks in drapers shops, spread out on trestle tables, cut to the needs of fine ladies, soft to the touch and pleasant. Cloth is plenteous, bountiful even, that none if they have even a coin or two need go without covering. Even whores can swathe themselves with flimsy gauze, even impoverished policemen like Javert himself can mend threadbare uniforms with sturdy whole-cloth. Yet still the mayor seems stinted of this wealth, as though in this one thing he is scanty, in this one thing his generosity unparalleled by all those around him, shrinks to a beggar's portion. His dress is mean in some essentials, a study in contrasts like a man not born to such wealth. Javert's eye notes it all, sees the unevenness in his attire- the patches made where no patches should be, and yet the cloth is of good quality, the buttons fine and burnished, there is just not enough of it to go round.  
  
  
He does not know the name of Madeleine's tailor, yet wonders that he should keep the man when clearly he falls at the first hurdle- that of decent and modest attire. For there is more than one place where this lack is noted- the sleeves fall half an inch short around muscular wrists, the waistcoat stretches itself beyond its keeping, beyond what is seemly, an emphasis on the strength of his chest that is unwarranted and intrusive, and yet there is one place where above all others, the tailor has failed his duty. Madeleine's thighs stretch powerful and sturdy against the strain of cloth, as though they wish to shed propriety and display themselves, and a similar paucity of cloth highlights his most private of parts. It does not merely outline, does not merely delineate the curve of his large prick, it positively displays it. It is crude, it is unsubtle and it makes Javert wish to hide him, wish to cover him with modesty, so that he need not see that wanton exhibition that Madeleine is so delicately and finely unaware of.  
  
  
For there is the rub. Madeleine does not flaunt himself, he is a retiring man by nature, he shelters behind desks, behind doors and there is nothing in his eyes or in his face that would indicate such a ready parting with the rules of appropriate dress and display. He is magnificently unaware of the obtrusion of his prick against his trousers, he does not glance down nor does he meet Javert's eyes with anything but the most innocent of glances. He is a frugal man, this is clear- he does not waste money, nor does he indulge himself, and although he has as good a wardrobe as any man in the town he does not add to it. Javert is caught wondering if when Madeleine had had these clothes made he had not been so endowed, if he had grown into them so as to speak, though he dismisses that with one thought. Men as they aged might accrue flesh, but the idea that Madeleine's prick had grown in proportion was ridiculous, and he should put it out of his mind immediately. But there still remains the obscene thrust of barely hidden prick, the unconsciousness of his sin against the public order and as the arm of the law, Javert should alert him to this.  
  
  
Yet there are no rules for this. There is nothing in his book that allows him the luxury of framing his words as a command, not a need. He may only request, not insist, and without that fallback of the law he does not dare voice his concerns. He is a citizen true, he is a policeman, and yet the thought of expressing these doubts to the mayor's face brings a hot flush to Javert's cheeks which he has never felt before. How would he phrase it without sounding as though he has dwelt too long on the parts of Madeleine that he feels need to be covered? It seems as though no other has ever complained- Javert knows Madeleine well enough that if they had, then he would have covered himself with apologies, and remedied the matter instantly- he cares so much for his citizens that he could do no less after all. And yet from Javert it is different, he knows.

  
Will he be able to speak clearly and firmly on this matter, without flushing cheeks betraying his disquiet at the way in which Madeleine's parts press so firmly against his trousers? What sort of man, he thinks with distaste, is so un at ease with matters such as this? He should be used to the sight of man's flesh, he has seen it bared, has seen it naked at every stage (and must his thoughts always return to Toulon?) and never has it distressed him so, never has it stirred in him the urge to cover and hide. Nor has he only seen naked men; clothed men pass him every day and stir not a second glance. He does not observe their structure, their form, nor ponder on how they can be so unaware of what lies beneath. That is reserved for Madeleine, and Javert resents this imposition on his peace of mind, for so he views it. It is an imposition that Madeleine has not attended to his dress with more care, that he persists in this unmannerly state of attire. It is perhaps that state of almost nakedness that disturbs him- covered and yet open, the tautness of fabric hugging the curve of private parts in such a way as to make it the focus of all his thoughts.  
  
  
Still he cannot continue to live like this with the blatant lurid indiscretion of Madeleine's clothing taunting him when he delivers his reports, when the other man walks, fabric stretching past point of endurance, until it is only by the Grace of God that the man has not suffered an embarrassing exposure. Javert does not ponder nor dwell on how he knows exactly what he would do it in that situation- how with grace he would loan Madeleine his coat to cover him, does not even wonder in the dark of the night how every detail of it stands out so clearly in his mind's eye. All he can see is the foolishness, the meanness of Madeleine's covering, and it frustrates him in ways that he can't name or quantify. Over and over he turns the question in his most secret of thoughts- how can he without causing the other man to feel indignance at his rudeness- bring up this most delicate of matters? How can he phrase it without sounding as though he has indulged too long in appraising his mayor?  
  
  
At that word, Javert always pulls his thoughts up with a jerk. It is not indulgence he tells himself, it is only a civic matter and he is obliged to express concern. There are women of the demi-monde that display less, who are more decently covered in nakedness than the mayor is in clothes. He ponders for a while the satisfaction of delivering the message by more indirect means- perhaps a letter directed to him from 'A Friend' admonishing him for his lack of awareness in the matter of his raiment, but rejects them with decision. Letters are the mere tools of those who do not dare to express their concerns in the light. Javert has nothing to be ashamed of, he knows this and need not hide behind black ink and white paper, need not conceal his words under the sugared coat of advice. He must seize the day and confront Madeleine directly. If needs must he must guide him to a mirror and let him survey to the full, the sheer indignity of what he so unconsciously displays.  
  
  
Having made up his mind on the matter, (and the mind of the Law is not easily changed or dissuaded from it's course) he resolved that on the next suitable opportunity he would confront the other man on this, offer him a word of friendly advice (he is not friends with the mayor, but he can surely presume on this occasion to assume the duties of such a one, since those he has, have so patently failed him.) He does not sleep that night, on his narrow bed, instead he stares at the tiny patch of stars that he can see through the small window, and it is not until the grey light of dawn suffuses the bare little room that he can manage to catch even a little sleep. There is a pit in his stomach now, a hollow empty feeling that devours him from within. It is alien to him, and when he prods it with careful thoughts, it whispers back to him the absurd word _fear._

  
  
This is ridiculous of course. Javert does not fear. He does not quail in the face of what must be done, he merely does and is as he has always been. This is no different he tells himself. There is no reason why he should feel this way, as though there is a black sucking abyss inside him, swallowing his reason and his nerve. Yet still it lingers, draws the strength from his limbs and the blood from his face, leaves him bone-white and cold as he partakes of his early morning repast. The minutes tick by in a remorseless fashion as he undergoes his duties, waiting with every fibre of his being for the inevitable strike of the large tower clock. When it comes, he puts aside his work and takes up his ledger, his accounting of the week's work and goes to wait upon the mayor.  
  
  
The house is grey; quiet and empty, and there is no sign of the mayor. He is usually scrupulous about these appointments, and it had been his wish that they continue them at the house not at the office, so Javert wonders, puzzles at his absence. His questions are soon answered though when a sleepy maid places a tray of tea and tartines before him, and a plate of croissants, and bids him partake while her master prepares to meet him, and he gingerly allows her to pour him a cup of tea- the china cup so delicate and fragile in his grasp that he fears to hold it with too strong a grip. When Madeleine enters the room, the reason for the delay is evident- the man's face is weary and drawn as though he has slept too little. If Javert were another man, he would stand, make his excuses and leave, for the mayor is clearly in no state to receive him, but he does not- there is work to be done, and there is his speech to make, however much he flushes at the thought of initiating this conversation.  
  
  
Madeleine does not disappear behind the desk as he usually does, he picks up a cup of tea from the desk, and a slice of tartine and he stretches, rolls his shoulders behind the plain white linen of his shirt, sighs deeply, straining at the cravat, and sure enough when Javert allows his gaze to flicker downwards a second, there is the source of all this trouble, the brazen display of too large flesh against too little cloth. The curve is obscene, pronounced and he can feel his mouth go dry at the sight, it is an effort to tear his mind away from it, and meet once again Madeleine's mild gaze. "Shall we sit by the fire?" the mayor asks, and leads the way with his cup in hand, and Javert is forced to confront the fact that it is not only his prick that is barely hidden by the trousers, but also the firm shape of his buttocks. When they sit, the fabric barely creases at all, does nothing to hide the prominent jut and Javert cannot remember in this instant what he had planned to say. With hands that he must force not to tremble, he raises the cup to his lips and drinks, does not register the taste or the heat so absorbed is he in the terrible spectacle before him. He can feel his words eddying away, can no longer remember precisely why he is here. The angle of his ledger reminds him soon enough, and he sets down the cup on a spindly table and opens it so he can recount the week's work.  
  
  
Madeleine listens attentively, silently, as he always does, asks only the most pertinent of questions, and all would be well if it were not for his shifting in his chair, and at last Javert can bear it no longer. He must say something now, or keep his peace forever, and that he will not do. When he has finished his recitation of the week's work, the names of those reprimanded and arrested, when he has listened politely to the expected plea for mercy, for clemency that so often the mayor extends, ( _a Christian man_ Javert thinks, even if he cannot approve such requests,) then he clears his throat and stops dead, the words turned to ash in his mouth.  
  
  
"Monsieur," he begins, and Madeleine moves expectantly forward as though to better hear what Javert means to say. "Monsieur," he continues. "Your dress disturbs me."

  
Madeleine sits back, and the barest hint of a frown crinkles his forehead as though this was not what he had expected to hear, and Javert is covered with confusion, stumbles over his words in an effort to apologise. "Forgive me," he says, and his hands are cold around his cup when he picks it up. He does not know what he was thinking- now the words are out there between them and cannot be withdrawn, yet he quails at elaborating his thoughts.  
  
  
"There is no forgiveness needed between us Javert," Madeleine replies and there is a queer intentness in his eyes, a stillness that both stifles and soothes, and Javert cannot name, cannot quantify, cannot control the mixture of emotion that floods through him, or the sharp edged tinge of awareness that suddenly flickers to life within him. There is something here that he is missing, something important and he vainly grasps at it. Madeleine disrupts his thoughts by folding his long fingers around his own cup as though he is holding something terribly precious, and speaking once again. "Pray continue. I assure you I wish to hear what you wish to say, and there will be no repercussions from your speech," and again there it is, that half-hidden flash of remembrance.  
  
  
It scatters as he gathers his wits. "I merely wished to acquaint you to the nature of your attire," he says, and the words fall like pebbles into a silent still pool, ripple outwards until they seem to be all that Javert can hear, the rush of his own blood in his ears and the echo of his words. There is no response and blindly he plunges onwards. Javert does not retreat. He has done and said nothing to be ashamed of, he is here as a friend he thinks, and that stiffens his spine and provides him with courage. "Your tailor should be ashamed," he says bluntly, does not prevent this time his gaze from dropping to Madeleine's lap. "I say this as one who is concerned for your reputation."  
  
  
There is a peculiar heat now that suffuses Madeleine's face, a rosy glow that Javert cannot divine the meaning of, for the man does not drop his eyes in shame, nor betray the tell-tale signs of embarrassment. "I do not understand," he says, though Javert cannot make it more clear, and so direct action must come to pass. Javert stands, his own doubts muted as to the course of this action, and when Madeleine stands also, he leads him to the large mirror that adorns one side of the room, and with effortless ease lifts it down to the floor, rejoicing for one private second that his body acts so smoothly even if his mind revolts. When it is on the floor, tilted against the wall, he gestures to Madeleine to approach, to see what Javert sees. Madeleine pauses by his elbow, warm and large and terrifying in his quiet command even like this. They stand together, and Javert's gaze moves upwards past their booted feet, onwards over his own blue heavy cut trousers, and Madeleine's well cut grey ones until it pauses at the cusp. Like this, Madeleine is obscene still, it is not Javert's imagination or invention. He presses against the fabric, large and heavy as though he cannot be contained, and Javert contains the impulse to prove the matter more thoroughly, to run his hand over the bulk concealed and demonstrate the way in which he is exposed.  
  
  
The thought shocks him to the core, and sparks a fiery tremor in his veins. He can imagine it as clearly as day, the heft, the weight, the pulsing living quality of Madeleine's flesh under his fingers, and it is not displeasing. This is a worse shock than the thought at all. Javert is a man, a man who has seen and done too much, seen the depths of human nature. Now it is reflected back at him in a mirror, the starving hunger of his need and the thrust and bulge of that which draws his eyes. He must restrain his hands, his eyes, his lips, his tongue, the sharp unexpectedness of this desperate need. There are rules to follow, niceties to be observed always, there is no provision for this aberration of his thoughts. Beside him Madeleine shifts but does not draw away. He seems caught in contemplation as Javert is of the thickness and evidence of his prick caught tight against too little cloth.

  
They are caught in silence, woven in a web of their own making and impossible to escape, and Javert can hear Madeleine's breathing almost, slow and steady as though he regulates it by force of will. There is nothing that remains to be said, and Javert almost falls, almost stumbles and reaches out for what hovers within his reach but forces himself to perfect control. As he watches them both in the mirror, in the seconds between long heartbeats, he notices that Madeleine impossibly thickens, that fabric that had seemed as though it could strain no more, could contain not an inch extra is now bulging tight. What had before been disgraceful was now without doubt indecent, and Javert could not tear his eyes away. It is not merely large, he thinks almost dispassionately, it is thick and human and real. He must leave, he knows this, before he does something that can not be forgiven. Before he sinks to his knees and presses his cheek to Madeleine's thigh, and his lips to the outrageous outline of his prick.  
  
  
He should be filled with roiling disgust, bleak horror should flood through his veins at what he wishes, at what he thinks, but he is tired, too tired to dissemble, and something about this strikes deep. There are words for men such as he, there are hells to burn in and spittle to be wiped away from walking in the street if you are not wise. There are no laws though, there is no shield to turn to, to shelter and take for your own. What he wishes will not take him to the gallows nor see him in court, there are no lines to follow, nothing to obey bar the dictates of a conscience he cannot rely on to bear him right in this matter. Too long he has been guided in every step, now the law abandons him and leaves him bare before this hunger.  
  
  
This in the end is the reason why he turns to go, turns to leave temptation behind. Madeleine stares at him now, not at the glass, with a look that craves as though he too burns within, as though as much as Javert longs to sink down and mouth at that firm line, so Madeleine wishes for him to indulge. He squares his shoulders, picks up a heavier burden to bear upon himself again, and strides towards the door. In two quick steps Madeleine is there, presses against him heavy with desire, and Javert can not resist for long moments, lets his fingers test that heat, that weight, imagine how it would feel between his hands, blood-red with desire and need, swelling against his skin and not mere unyielding cloth. Can feel the urgent throb of it beneath his palm, the supplicatory need that he so longs to assuage with all of him that is not the Law, is not upright, that wishes to sink once again.  
  
  
Then he is outside, blinking in grey light, rod-hard himself under safe cover of his own more acceptable clothing, and as though the air brings him back to sense he strides with long steps away from the scene of his quiet need and quieter fall. The vision does not disappear though. When he closes his eyes, against the black he can see that aching prick imprisoned against release, his fingers that delve deep into his pockets can feel only the harshness of cloth, and the firm unyielding flesh beneath, and he breathes in only the same air that between them they had shared for long moments. When he has arrived back at his lodgings (early he knows, he should not be here, he shall make up the time later) he does not ponder right or wrong, must only rid himself of this desperate desire. His own prick is hard and ready, small in no man's accounting and yet he does not hold himself in his thoughts, he holds Madeleine's prick. It is his that he strokes with angry commanding strokes, worships with soft touches, indulges and milks of every drop of come. He can feel it in his hand still, that iron hard, skin soft, cloth covered prick, and when he closes his eyes once more, he strips Madeleine through cloth, watches the wetness soak through his trousers, still contained and heavy, but quiescent once again, calmed as it had been engorged, by Javert each time. **  
**

He has come himself in this orgy of imagination- his hand is slick and wet, and he feels unsated, on edge as though this has merely blunted the edge of his want not satisfied it. If he had thought that every sensation would be washed away in relieving himself like this, he was wrong. Still the hotness of Madeleine's breath that had been against his face for that long second, lingered, and the phantom feeling of a proud lengthy prick under his hands remained. He cleans himself briskly, does not let his thoughts dwell too long on the whole matter- for there lies madness, panting before him, slavering at his feet. He does not catch his eyes in the small slip of a mirror that he uses to shave by, and when he redresses, when he covers up his sin, he feels that he is almost Javert again. A brisk walk chases the cobwebs away, and if for seconds he cannot wrench his mind away from what occurred, well only God may judge him on this matter.

  
The breath is driven from his lungs though when he encounters Madeleine in the street, dressed anew, and Javert dares not dip his gaze down again today. His ledger is held, and Madeleine returns it to him with a smile, and Javert knows the man, knows what lying is, what lying looks like and he cannot perceive it in Madeleine's face. There is no anger there, no haughty dismissal as Javert had dismissed him, and his thoughts are drawn instinctively to the incident again, and he feels his mouth water as though on cue. "Good day," Madeleine says, duty done and departs. Javert stares after him and opens the ledger. There in pencil on the final page is marked _Javert_  and, _job left undone._

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback welcomed, as is concrit.


End file.
